


this is a summer story

by 8611



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Human, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8611/pseuds/8611
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles refuses to be distracted from finishing her thesis. This plan works awesomely until she discovers her advisor has a twin sister.  Turns out that distraction comes in Camaro-driving, incredible-rack-having, furniture-building packages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is a summer story

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing a canon retelling genderswap piece, and then [starsandgraces](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces) and I got talking about how this fandom needs a Queer as Folk AU. Annnddd then I crossed the wires and now this is more of an L Word AU, only with 98% less drama. 
> 
> Don't ask me about the title. I spent like three days racking my brain and eventually gave up. 
> 
> As usual, a massive thank you to [starsandgraces](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces) for also beta'ing this. <3

**Stilinski, Zora**  
 _sos off on tangent about spitalfields market in london_

**Hale, Laura**  
 _Do I even want to know?_

**Stilinski, Zora**  
 _it was originally about Jack the Ripper, I swear_

**Hale, Laura**  
 _And how much Red Bull have you had?_

**Stilinski, Zora**  
 _not an issue can I come over please laura HELP NEEDED_

Laura sighs and, maybe against her better judgment, texts Stiles back with a yes. She’s just gotten home, and judging by the frantic nature of Stiles’ texts, she’s willing to bet that Stiles is probably back at school and possibly hasn’t slept for anywhere from 24 to 48 hours. 

If Stiles wasn’t one of the most insanely intelligent students she’s had in a while, she probably would have stabbed her with a letter opener by now. 

Laura’s gotten her shoes off, her mail open, and dinner on the stove by the time that there’s the sound of old brakes in her driveway and her door is banging open. She leans out of the kitchen to watch as Stiles comes careening around the corner, weighed down under an armload of books. She looks slightly crazed: her hair is sticking up on one side, and her eyes are blood shot. 

“Jesus christ, Stiles, how are you still upright?” Laura asks as Stiles crashes at her kitchen table. “This isn’t even due for another month and a half, and you’re mostly done.”

“I scrapped all of chapters 4 and 5,” Stiles says, shuffling through books and dropping her backpack with a clunk. “I was talking about Victorian London – which I know you said not to do because everyone’s talked about it – but I couldn’t stop myself because I need it as theoretical background for --“

There’s the sound of another car door shutting, and both of them look in the direction of the front of the house. When the front door opens again, Laura mentally curses her life to high heaven. There are only three people in the world to have keys to her house. Stiles is currently at her table and her mother is on vacation in Majorca at the moment. 

That leaves only one other person: her twin sister. Who is now currently standing in the archway to the kitchen, looking confused. 

“You would have told me if you started dating jailbait, right?” Derica asks, and Laura shoots her a glare that would have killed a lesser being. 

“That’s Stiles, one of my _students_. I don’t --“

She’s cut off by Stiles. “Oh my god. There are _two_ of you? My life just got so much hotter.”

Laura actually facepalms and thinks about whacking Stiles in the head with the spatula currently in her hand, but alas, university regulations prevent her from doing that. 

\---

Stiles is lounging around at Free State with Lydia, Allison and Scout when one Derica fucking Hale comes in. She’d only been at Laura’s long enough to drop a table off and then vanish, which means that Stiles, who’d been, let’s face it, pretty much high as a kite on lack of sleep and various stimulants, hadn’t had much time to do anything but gape. 

Stiles is doing a lot of gaping now. Lydia raises an eyebrow at her but turns around to look in the direction of the counter, where Derica’s currently talking to the barista like she knows the guy pretty well. 

“Oh, I’ve seen her around before,” Lydia says. “Stop drooling and stiff upper lip, Stiles, she’s _so_ out of your league.”

“She’s my advisor’s twin sister,” Stiles says, which gets three deer-in-the-headlight stares in return. “Yeah, I was over at Laura’s a couple of days ago and Derica dropped by with a goddamn table because she builds them or some shit?” 

“Your thesis advisor looks like that?” Scout says, sounding slightly pinched.

“Seriously, with your hamster sex brain, how do you get any work done?” Allison asks. 

“I thought she was straight until a couple of days ago! And she’s my advisor, not a sex object. Wait, that sounds super bad. What I mean is –-“

“Can I finish your thesis for you?” Scout asks, and gets whapped in the back of the head for her trouble by Allison, although she’s grinning. 

“Stop staring, Stilinski,” Lydia says, and Stiles jerks her eyes back to the group, clearing her throat. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says. They end up discussing this massive sheepdog that’s currently recuperating at the vet where Scout works when Derica comes by their table. 

“From Laura. No, I’m not messengering her anything back,” Derica says, hiding behind a pair of aviators and a massive thing of coffee. She drops a small paperback on the table, which Stiles takes a moment to get to because she’s too busy staring at Derica. 

“Um, thanks?” Stiles’ voice has suddenly gone up about two octaves. “Wait, how’d she know I’d be here?” 

“Seriously? Leo, the owner? We’ve known him since we were kids.” Derica gestures vaguely towards the back of the café. 

“Oh, shit,” Stiles says. “Has he been giving Laura progress reports? I swear to god I don’t actually slack off that much.”

Derica just grins before saluting them and leaving. When Derica gets in the shiny black Camaro in the parking lot Stiles is pretty sure she makes some kind of strangled noise. 

“Oh my god,” Lydia says, and she sounds kind of impressed. “I think you’re made of 110% sexual frustration right now.”

“She makes furniture and drives a Camaro,” Stiles says. “I am _so done_.”

Scout pats her on the arm in an _I know that feel, bro_ type gesture of solidarity. Stiles would appreciate it, but right now she’s too busy melting. 

\---

“Alright, your protégé is now armed with some book about ‘The Canonical Five’, whatever they are,” Derica says, dropping down onto to Laura’s sofa. “Which has kind of a bloody cover, by the way.”

“Well, yeah; it’s about murder,” Laura says, half distracted by the pile of grading she has in front of her. 

“What is that kid studying, anyway?” 

“Uh, at last check her title was ‘Performances of Self: Sex Work from 1805 to 1914’, although she’s gone through so many I don’t know what it is at this point.” 

“That’s… interesting.”

Laura just nods and goes back to grading while Derica fiddles around with her phone. She’s got texts from people in NYC asking when she’s getting back, which is nice, but the thing is, she’s not sure if she’s going back any time soon. The minute she’d landed at LAX something had loosened in her chest, like she was home.

“Hey, Laura?”

“Yep?”

“What would you say to me staying here for longer than a few weeks?”

Laura glances up at her, a strange expression on her face, and Derica looks back at her phone. 

“That’d be really nice,” Laura says, and when Derica looks at her again Laura is grinning. “I’ve missed you. What changed your mind?”

“Landing at LAX, being able to breathe, In-N-Out, seeing Stiles and her entourage and being reminded of us, I don’t know. Pick one. New York was just… there’s so much _angst_ in the air there. Like, even too much for me.”

“I didn’t even know that was possible,” Laura says, laughing. “But yeah, I know what you mean. Except, Stiles’ entourage?”

“When I dropped the book off, Stiles was sitting with a group, and I thought of you and I, and Erica and Boyd.” 

“I’m glad,” Laura says after a while, her grin going a bit soft. “About all of it.” 

“Yeah,” Derica says, turning back to her phone. It’s silent for a good ten minutes before Laura eventually speaks. 

“You totally missed the car, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.” 

\---

It’s not like Stiles being over at Laura’s place is weird. Stiles has worked here a lot. 

It might just be that she’s working here a bit more in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the elusive Camaro-driving, amazing-rack-having, furniture-building other Hale. 

Also, Laura’s got a great deck and an awesome back garden, and there’s only so long Stiles can spend in her own crappy apartment or at the library before she wants to claw her eyes out. 

Stiles is spread out across the deck, papers weighted down with river rocks from the planter, when the other Hale actually shows up. Stiles can hear the front door open and the noise of groceries being put away, a low hum of chatter between Laura and Derica. 

“I see a hurricane has come through my yard,” Laura says when she steps outside, and Stiles turns around, grinning up at her. “Is chapter 5 redone?”

“Getting there,” Stiles says, pointing at the laptop sitting in front of her. “I’m doing my concluding remark type things.” 

“See, you’ll be fine,” Laura says. “Just email it to me when you’re done and I’ll check it over this weekend.” 

“Sweet deal,” Stiles says before turning back to the laptop. She should probably be working at the table, but whatever. She’s got more space this way. 

No one else bothers her until she’s giving the chapter one last look over for typos and the sun is starting to set, and she’s settled into an easy rhythm of work. 

She’s very intently trying to figure out how to reword a sentence when a beer appears in front of her face. She boggles at it for a moment before taking it and looking up to find Derica bending over her. Stiles does the gentlewomanly thing and doesn’t look down her top. 

Much. 

(Ok, Stiles totally steals a look. What? She’s kind of an asshole; she’s never said differently.)

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “Although if you’re trying to get me drunk to give Laura more work to edit, I’ve already finished my next chapter.”

“Nah,” Derica says. “She’d just take revenge on me.”

Stiles watches out of the corner of her eye as Derica sits down at the table, kicking her feet up another one of the chairs. She’s wearing sneakers, which seems kind of hilarious to Stiles, for some reason. 

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes while Stiles mouths at the neck of her bottle and tries to figure out how to start a conversation with and/or seduce Derica. 

“So,” Stiles says eventually. “How come I hadn’t seen you before a couple of weeks ago?” 

“I have a workshop in New York, and I was out there for like a year.”

“And you came all the way across the country just to drop off an end table?”

“Well, no; I shipped that over.” 

Stiles saves what she’s done and turns to face Derica, actually taking time to look at her fully for probably the first time ever. She’s not identical to Laura - they must be fraternal twins - and she’s tanner and broader. Laura’s facial features are soft where Derica’s are sharp, and her hair is wavier, longer, the strands getting caught somewhere over her shoulders. 

There’s paint on her jeans and she’s wearing a stupidly soft and worn-in top, and those sneakers. She looks so… unwound. Stiles is so used to Laura’s bob and high-waisted pencil skirts that it’s almost surreal seeing someone who looks so like her dressed so differently. 

Derica catches her watching and Stiles looks away quickly, almost guiltily, and takes a drink. 

“We’re not identical,” Derica says, and Stiles just nods. 

“I figured,” Stiles says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just strange. I didn’t even know Laura had a sister, let alone a twin, until, well. You know.”

Derica just hums in acknowledgement, and they finish their beers in silence. Stiles is kind of amazed that she’s managed to keep quiet for this long, but then again, she’s just finished a whole chapter’s worth of words and there’s something about Derica that makes Stiles want to be around her, just existing in the same space. 

Stiles is pretty sure she’s never felt that way about anyone, and she’s suddenly kind of worried that what she thought was a crush is actually something bigger. 

\---

“I’m pretty sure Stiles seriously wants in your pants,” Laura says conversationally, and then smirks as Derica nearly loses her footing on the treadmill. She looks slightly wide-eyed for a moment before her face shuts back down into the scowl that she’s been wearing since Laura dragged her to the gym. 

“Are you trying to pimp your student out to me?” Derica says, staring resolutely at one of the TVs on the wall. “Besides, grad students are high-strung psychos.”

“Stiles is actually really well-adjusted for a grad student, provided she isn’t on a Red Bull bender.”

“I can’t… just, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m way too old for hook-ups,” Derica growls. 

“Um, are you the same Derica who used to race me for girls?” 

“Laura, we were like 22. And shut up, you’ve been dating whatsherface for like four years.” 

“Your attention to the ins and outs of what’s going on with your family is astounding.” 

“Gimme a break, she lives in Chicago and you see her like… never.”

Laura rolls her eyes, because whatsherface ( _Jessica_ , thank you very much) is the dean of the goddamn law school at University of Chicago, and yes, they’re both a little (a lot) busy. It works. 

“What’s so wrong with Stiles?” Laura asks. She has a feeling that _nothing_ is wrong with Stiles, considering that Derica went and voluntarily spoke to Stiles - with beer, even – a couple of days ago. That’s like a declaration of love from Derica. 

“Nothing,” Derica mutters, and Laura smirks. “Nothing is wrong with Stiles.”

Laura is a genius and the best big sister ever, let it be known. 

When they’re back in the Camaro (seriously, Derica loves this car way too much; Laura is wondering if it’s time to stage an intervention) heading back to Laura’s, Derica bangs her head against her headrest a few times at a stoplight, and Laura grins. She knows she’s won. 

“Invite Stiles to the BBQ on Saturday,” Derica says, and it’s ground out like she’s chewing on glass. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Laura says, grinning, and doesn’t mention that she’d already taken the liberty of doing that yesterday. 

\---

It’s been a long-ass time since Derica has seen Boyd or Erica, which, she realizes when she sees them, had massively sucked. Yes, she’s a misanthropic bastard most of the time, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have friends. 

“Well, look who decided to roll back into town,” Erica says, grinning and kissing her on the cheek before Boyd wraps her in a somewhat bone-crushing hug. 

“Yeah, I think I’m staying for a while,” Derica says and Boyd gives her the kind of easy smile that she’s missed. 

“Why do I hear chatter?” Erica asks as they stop in the kitchen for drinks, and Derica just sighs. 

“Laura invited one of her students and her friends over,” Derica says. 

“Mini-posse?” Boyd asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Or something,” Derica sighs. 

Stiles and the other three are currently on the steps to the deck, laughing about something. Stiles is sitting on the top step, hunched over and grinning at her feet, and it’s making her dress ride up. 

The dress that’s showing off the fact that she’s about 75% leg, which is doing things to Derica’s brain. She’d feel slightly skeezy if it wasn’t for the fact that she _knows_ Stiles spends half of her time at the house trying to look down Derica’s shirt.

“I don’t remember us being that hot or well dressed in college,” Erica says, raising an eyebrow. 

“That’s because they’re not, they all just look like they’re insanely young,” Derica says. “The one in the blue dress is one of Laura’s grad students.”

“Where is Laura, anyway?” Boyd asks as she drops down into one of the patio chairs. 

“Making an emergency burger bun run, because evidently we can’t even be trusted to throw a BBQ,” Derica sighs. 

“I could have told you that,” Erica says, smirking. Derica just rolls her eyes. 

“How long are you thinking about staying?” Boyd asks, and Derica shrugs. 

“A while. I think I got the NYC itch out.”

“Did you find yourself?” Erica asks with a laugh.

“Sorry, which one of us was having an identity crisis last year? Because it wasn’t me,” Derica says. 

“Hey, I was thinking about dyeing my hair red. That’s a big step,” Erica says. 

“Because ending up with blue streaks wasn’t bigger,” Boyd says. “Which, for the record?”

“I KNOW,” Erica growls. “There’s a reason I bleached them out after two days!” 

“Still not the stupidest choice you’ve ever made,” Derica says. 

“No, that’d be being friends with you,” Erica says, and she even sticks her tongue out. Derica just grins and leans back in her chair because, yeah, she missed this. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” Boyd says after Erica has trailed inside, offering up her glass for Derica to clink her own against. “I think it takes both of us to rein Erica in.” 

“She’s a handful and a half,” Derica says, and then stares pensively off into the yard. “I think there’s a boob joke in there somewhere.”

Boyd just laughs, shaking her head. 

“You going to reopen the shop here?” Boyd asks, and Derica nods. “Isaac’ll be happy to hear it; he’s working for a finishing company right now and I think he’s ready to tear his hair out.”

Derica can imagine it. Isaac has never been much of a team player, so she can’t imagine he enjoys being in construction. On the other hand, leave him with raw metal and a blowtorch and you’ll come back to a gorgeous bed frame by the end of the day. 

“The place I was renting in Brooklyn was really cool, but I miss my shit,” Derica says. “It’ll be good to get back.”

“Seeing you happy and basking in the sun is both terrifying and good,” Boyd says, and then stands up, presumably to go refill her drink. “You should do it more often.”

“Hey, I have an image to uphold,” Derica says as Boyd walks away laughing. Derica just shakes her head, but she knows she’s smiling, and when she looks up Stiles is watching her, eyes wide and curious. 

\---

Laura has a plan. It’s most likely a bad plan, because she’s pretty sure that if setting your sister up with one of your students isn’t forbidden by the university bylaws, it probably should be. 

Plus, there’s the whole thing where she knows both Derica and Stiles have gotten burned in the past. She’s intimately aware of the Kate fallout, and while she doesn’t know what turned Stiles from a bouncy undergrad absurdly excited for her interview with Laura into a snarky, mohawk’d (oh man, was that a hilarious look. Laura totally has photos), untrusting grad student, it had to have been bad. Still, two years later and one grown out mohawk later, Stiles is bright and sharp again, all fast smiles and faster mouth, and Derica is at least smiling now, which is kind of massive. 

She watches them when Stiles comes over to work, chatting idly with Derica about everything and anything; her work, her dad’s latest case, something ridiculous that Scout and Allison had done. Derica mostly keeps quiet, but sometimes she’ll go off on tangents about New York, or what she’s working on at the shop, and Stiles always listens, which is quite a sight to behold. Stiles doesn’t shut up for just anyone. 

She’s also not blind, so she knows that Stiles is visually glued to Derica’s chest and Derica has a thing for Stiles’ legs. However, because they’re both the most stubborn and frustrating people on the planet (and she means that out of love), they haven’t actually done anything. 

“It’s totally the hair, isn’t it?” Laura asks one night when they’re out getting burritos. “In her defense, she got sick of trying to grow her mohawk out and just left the sides buzzed.”

Derica nearly chokes on her burrito, and when she looks up at Laura she’s coughing and her eyes are watering. 

“ _Mohawk_?” 

“Yeah, she had one when she first started her masters.”

“Oh god, I thought she was just doing the hipster undercut thing.”

“Well, I mean, she is now, but mostly out of being too impatient to wait for the sides to grow out.” 

“It’s not the hair,” Derica grinds out. 

“It’s...?”

“Laura, why do care so much? Are you trying with this much gusto to get all your students laid?” 

“I just know you both, and I think you’d be good for each other. C’mon, Derica, I’ve been watching you with her – that sounds slightly creepy – and you’ve been smiling.”

“That should not be a cause for celebration,” Derica says darkly. “And I’m plenty smiley around Boyd and Erica.” 

“Yeah, well, are you planning on dating either one of them any time soon?”

“No, because that would make me a home wrecker. Also, no, because I can’t… fuck, that’d be like sleeping with you.” 

“Oh god, bad mental image,” Laura says, wrinkling her nose. 

“Stiles called it a Hale sandwich the other day. I thought about dumping my water on her head.”

“Jesus Christ, I do _not_ want to know what goes on Stiles’ head.”

“I’m starting to think it’s like a Michael Bay movie.”

“You’d be surprised, actually; she once sent me a three page email about the last film he released and how much it offended her on a basic level.” 

“That just means she’s in possession of a brain.” 

“So if it’s not the hair, what is it?”

Derica’s quiet for a while, and she stares down at her burrito with a small frown like it’ll answer life’s questions for her. 

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “That’s the problem. I don’t have a single reason to keep me from asking Stiles out at this moment. And I’m not used to that, and it worries me.” 

“I…” Laura has no idea what to say. She was expecting one of Derica’s endless bullshit answers, not an actual, real, emotions-on-the-table answer. Derica hasn’t been good at those for a while. 

“Yeah,” Derica says. Laura reaches across the table to brush her hair out of her eyes and tuck it behind her ear like she’d do when they were kids, and Derica just looks up at her, bare and open. It’s been a long time since she’s trusted herself enough to be like that, and it makes Laura want to wrap her up in a hug and never let anyone hurt her ever again. 

\---

“Do you think if I asked Allison to marry me it’d finally happen now?” Scout asks, dropping the morning paper in Stiles’ lap. 

“Scout, do you seriously think I haven’t seen this yet? I got the alert on my phone last night when they announced it.” Stiles holds up the paper, waving it around. Because the LA Times knows their readership, the _PROP 8 STRUCK DOWN_ headline is taking up most of the front page. “Besides, I thought you two were technically engaged already? I got dragged into that plan; I remember you doing the whole down on one knee thing after she got out of her last final sophomore year.”

“Technically, yes. But I never got her a ring --“

“-- SCOUT HARPER MCCALL --“

“-- I know, I know! I totally said I’d do that and it wasn’t legal anyway and we were both too busy when it was and now it is again and I really should get her a ring, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you should. Like _five years ago_.” 

“I know!” Scout moans, slipping further down in her chair. “I need coffee before this conversation can continue.”

Stiles sighs and Scout goes scampering off to the counter. Stiles unfolds the newspaper, staring at the front page with a little grin. Even if she’s never planning on getting married - because seriously, fuck that - she’s glad that her friends can now. Scout and Allison have been in love since about halfway through first period the first day of their sophomore year in high school, and by lunch, everyone knew they were going to get married and have 2.5 kids and a dog and a white picket fence.

When Scout comes back with something with whipped cream on top, she’s looking slightly less afraid that Stiles is going to drag her off by the ear to go ring shopping. 

(Which Stiles is seriously thinking about.)

“So, how’s the Derica situation?” Scout asks, not at all subtly. 

“We’ll return to you _not getting your fiancée a ring for five years_ later,” Stiles says, and Scout groans, letting her head roll back. “But, uh, it’s not going anywhere?”

“Seriously? I mean, I know you would have texted me like the second you got laid, but this is glacial for you.”

“Well, it’s become a Derica _problem_.”

“Problem? How – _oh_. Oh my god, Stiles, are you actually thinking about dating someone?”

“Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, missy. But, yes. Terrifyingly.” 

Stiles curls her feet up under her, sighing and hugging her coffee mug a bit closer to her chest. She hasn’t done that whole relationship thing since the monumental implosion that was The Summer of Emily. 

“This is kind of awesome,” Scout says with a grin, licking whipped cream off of the rim of her mug. “This could be really good for you.”

“Ugh,” Stiles mutters. “Goddamn Derica Hale and her fantastic rack.”

Scout just raises her eyebrows knowingly over her mound of whipped cream and sugar masquerading as a real coffee-type beverage. 

\---

This is Laura’s fault. 

“You want me to do _what_.”

“Drive this over to Derica,” Laura says, handing over a box of something insanely heavy and metallic-sounding and the keys to her car. 

“I don’t think allowing me to drive your car so that I can deliver a box of… whatever this is to your sister is technically how advisor-advisee relationships are supposed to work.” 

“Stiles, we blew right past that the time you slept on my couch.” 

“Hey, that was a while ago!”

“ _Exactly_. We are officially at the stage of our relationship where I can you have you deliver a box of handmade nails to Derica.”

“Sorry, what?” Stiles kind of gapes at her before shuffling things around so that she can lift the flap and peer into the box. Inside, in heavy plastic bags, are a large amount of what look to be hand-hammered nails. “I think my life used to be normal.”

“Do you remember telling me that story about Scout, you, the crowbar and the crockpot when you were on one of your Red Bull benders?”

“…touché. Fine, where am I going with this box of nails?” 

Laura sends her out the door with an address somewhere in Westchester. The good part of this is that Laura has a really nice car with a kickin’ stereo system and a nav system, which means that this can be a Kanye-filled, correct directions trip. 

(Stiles has been _sans_ Jeep since it decided to die _the exact night_ that Emily broke up with her. Her life has horrible, terrible timing, and she’s way too poor to rebuild the thing from the ground up at this point in time, so it’s living in her dad’s garage while she drives her grandmother’s Neon. 

Stiles hates everything.)

The address turns out to be a fairly dead-looking, industrial-type deal in the flight path, and at first Stiles thinks she’s copied the address down wrong until she swings around the back and spots the Camaro parked with a couple other cars. There’s a door cracked open by the parking spots, and she drags the box through it, having given up on carrying it. Because she’s walking backwards she manages to walk straight into someone. 

Squawking, she stands up and spins around to find herself face to face with a guy who’s looking at her she’s like she’s grown a second head. 

“I, uh, have nails?” Stiles says. The guy just looks even more confused. “For Derica! You know, hammer-type nails?” She gestures at the box and that’s when the guy breaks down laughing. Stiles glares, crossing her arms. 

“Oh my god, I thought you were drunk or something,” he says, grinning. “We don’t often get girls dragging boxes in here ass first.”

“Shut up, douchebag, that’s like 20 pounds of goddamn artisan nails.” 

“Stiles?” 

They both turn to see Derica coming out of a room in the back, and now that Stiles can actually look around, wow – there are workshops, and then there are _workshops_. This is some straight up dwarven shit. If dwarves made furniture instead of mithril armor. 

Also, Derica. Derica covered in paint and wood shavings and wearing low slung jeans and Stiles’ brain is going to overload if she keeps staring. 

“Hi!” she says, maybe a bit too quickly. “Laura said you needed these and I got tasked with driving them to you. Because she had a meeting. With an undergrad. Or something. But nails!” 

Derica squats down to open the box, taking out one of the bags and staring at it for a minute before tossing it to the guy. 

“Isaac, go put these in the back,” she says, and the guy – Isaac, Stiles guesses – salutes, hefting the box up and wandering off to where Derica had come from. Derica turns to Stiles, arms crossed. 

“Laura’s got you running errands?” 

“I honestly think this is one of her many ploys to get us to fuck.”

Huh. Stiles didn’t know Derica was capable of blushing. She looks down at her feet because, weirdly, _that’s_ making _her_ blush. Derica’s sneakers are red, orange, and grey today. 

“How is your knowledge of power tools?”

Stiles looks up, confused, eyebrows drawn together. 

“Huh?” she asks. 

“Power tools. On a scale of one to ten, how good are you with them?”

Stiles has never touched a single tool in her life, save a screwdriver or a hammer once or twice for the express purpose of hanging pictures. This is probably better for everyone involved. 

“Like… negative three?” Stiles says, and Derica just grins. 

“Let’s see if we can fix that.”

This is how Stiles ends up building a birdhouse with Derica for the rest of the afternoon. 

\---

Derica is never going to be able to pinpoint exactly in time where she went insane, but it was probably right around when Stiles purposely got blue paint on her nose and grinned like she was having the most fun she’d ever had in her life. Or it might have been when the birdhouse had ended up done in blue and green camo, which Stiles had said was to help it blend in so that no squirrels could get in.

Another possibility is when Stiles had run her fingertips over the top of a mostly finished dining table that Derica’s been working on, almost reverently, like there was a prayer somewhere in the wood she was trying to find. 

The point is, Derica is fucked. She’s so gone - full on stick-a-fork-in-her done - because she kind of wants to actually hang out with Stiles. And not just as a prelude to getting into anyone’s pants, but just honestly wants to talk and laugh with her. 

She’s blaming the dinner date on the insanity, because first of all, a) she’d asked Stiles out to dinner, and b) due to the fact that they were covered in paint and other crap, they’d ended up at a mostly empty Baja Fresh close enough to the airport that they can hear planes roaring over the block. 

“I didn’t know it was possible to get that many chips in your mouth at once,” Derica says, raising an eyebrow at Stiles. Stiles just grins around said mouthful of chips before tucking back into her tacos. 

“So,” Stiles says eventually. “What’re the nails for?”

Derica had almost forgotten about the nails. The fact is, they’re not _for_ anything, expressly. She hadn’t ordered them; Laura had. However, there’s totally a deeper purpose in there. They’re from Derica’s favorite metalsmith, and if Laura had them delivered to her place instead of the shop, it means that she’d wanted to send Stiles. With a box of really nice nails that Derica kinda wants to use on something for herself. 

Basically, the nails are another moment in the grad time scheme that is Laura’s long term plan of getting Stiles and Derica together. 

“Don’t know yet,” Derica says instead, because there’s no way in hell she’s telling Stiles any of this. “Probably Laura’s way of making up for not getting me anything for my last birthday.”

(Laura had flown to New York and taken her out to dinner at some stupidly fancy place that the grumpy asshole in Derica had hated but the foodie in her had loved.)

“It’s weird,” Stiles says. “Laura’s like, hyper-organized, but sometimes she forgets the human bits of life, you know?”

“I –-“ That’s a frighteningly good summation of Laura. “Yeah. She does”

“Whatever, she’s still a badass. Scout thinks she’s secretly Batman. Or Batwoman, I guess.”

“I’m pretty sure dealing with your thesis is superhero-y enough.”

“Har har. Just you wait, that shit is going to go down in history. Laura’s serious about getting it published, and it’s not even done yet.” 

“Are you going to do your PhD with her?”

Stiles sighs, stabbing at her salsa with a chip. “I don’t know,” she says. “If I’m doing a PhD, it’s going to be with Laura; that’s a no-brainer. But I don’t know, yet. I never took time off between undergrad and my masters, and I finished my undergrad in three years to save money, but it meant I had to take year-round classes. So I’m kinda… burnt out. I’ve been in school since I was four.”

“That’s… that’s a lot of school.”

“Eh,” Stiles shrugs, “People have done more. Laura’s said the door’s open whenever I want it to be.”

Derica knows the look on Stiles’ face, that kind of far away one. It’s probably not the same for Stiles, but for Derica it meant brightly-lit cities, places far away from Los Angeles. She’d never finished her degree, had gotten sick of staring at words on pages and realized that school was always going to be Laura’s world, not hers. 

She’d gone to New York, meaning to use it as a jumping off point. Instead, she’d ended up staying there. 

“You want the real world,” Derica says, and Stiles looks at her, guarded and confused. “You’re sick of school.”

“I’m not, not really… I mean, yes, maybe. But it’s not because of the learning - I fucking love that - it’s just the four walls and the institutionalized part, and I kind of want a job. I’ve been surviving on loans and funding, and that sucks.” 

Derica just nods, because she gets that. They’re silent for a while until Stiles asks about Isaac, where he’s from, who he is, and eventually somehow the conversation devolves into how shitty everything on TV seems to be at the moment. 

It’s only when they’re heading back to the shop so that Stiles can pick up Laura’s car that Derica realizes something. 

Right before Stiles gets out of the Camaro, Derica grabs her wrist and a pen from one of the cup holders, and then scribbles her number on Stiles’ palm. Stiles grins down at for a second before she darts in, presses a kiss to Derica’s lips, and leaves. 

Derica watches her drive away, eyes wide and fingers pressed to her mouth. Well, this is evidently a thing that’s happening. 

\---

Stiles is staring down an evening spent in the library, and that terrifies her. The library is full of undergrads. Studying things like engineering. Who stare at Stiles when she shows up with an armload of books from the history section. 

Stiles cannot spend the evening in the library. It’s not an option. 

The problem is that Free State closes at 6, Laura is out of town for the weekend (Stiles has personal rules about not taking over Laura’s house while she’s gone), and the ring has _finally_ happened, so Scout and Allison are off on an extended sexathon that means Stiles is sexiled from her own apartment until further notice. 

(Allison lives alone. Why they can’t just fuck over there, Stiles will never figure out.)

This is how she ends up outside Free State, watching the traffic go by on Wilshire, debating texting Derica. Because her deadline is bearing down on her like a horrible rhino of doom or something, Stiles has been busy enough that she hasn’t seen Derica since Stiles went and kissed her and then fled (smooth, Stilinski). On top of that she’s not sure what the “help I need a place to work” protocol is with someone who you kind of want to sleep with and maybe also date and adopt a cat with.

She sighs, bites the bullet, and pulls out her phone. 

**Unknown number**  
 _hey it’s stiles – I have a situation and was wondering if you’d mind me working at your place? it’s a long story but basically: sexiled + laura out of town + pls don’t leave me to languish in the library_

**Derica**  
 _I thought getting sexiled stopped happening after undergrad?_

**Stiles**  
 _allison and scout are masters of the impossible_

**Derica**  
 _I’m at the shop, but there’s a spare key taped to the bottom of the mailbox. 9321 Readcrest Drive._

**Stiles**  
 _holy shit you are the ACTUAL COOLEST ill bring booze <333_

Stiles laughs her way out of the car when it turns out that Derica, of course, lives on a side street in the hills in a house that doesn’t have a single front facing window. It is a cave of brooding if Stiles has ever seen one. 

She totally takes back her opinion, though, when she finds out that the inside of the place is gorgeous and not dark and broody. Also, Derica’s back deck is seriously like the study spot of her dreams – she can actually see the water. She drops down into one of the patio chairs with a happy sigh, and takes a moment to enjoy the last bit of sun of the day before she opens her laptop and starts into her thesis with a vengeance. 

This has to be on Laura’s desk in two weeks, and Stiles is getting progressively more terrified by that as each day goes by. Sure, she knows she’s going to do great on it, because Stiles expects nothing less than greatness from herself. The problem is that she’s also a total perfectionist and therefore until this is perfect, she’s not done. 

Stiles gets into it long enough that the sun sets and the back lights come on by some sort of magic that startles Stiles – friggn’ Derica _would_ have her house lights on timers – long before Derica appears. Stiles has settled down from her timer freak-out and is back in the groove when she vaguely registers the lights in the living room being flipped on. She looks up when the door slides open to find Derica armed with pizza and Red Bull. 

“Did you buy me Red Bull?” Stiles asks, her jaw dropping slightly. 

“I figured you’d need it,” Derica says, putting the six-pack down next to her and then taking a seat with the pizza. 

“Dude, seriously, thank you so much. You are my knight in slightly paint-covered denim and leather armor.” 

Derica just grins, offering the pizza to Stiles. Stiles probably makes some seriously obscene sounds, but whatever, pizza is her jam and she doesn’t get around to eating anything besides hastily-made sandwiches way too much of the time. 

Derica gives her a look that Stiles can’t quite read, but Stiles just shrugs it off and goes back to writing. 

\---

After the pizza gets demolished, Derica leaves Stiles to it. It’s getting cold out (she’s now seen Stiles in a dress after dark twice and she’s starting to think that Stiles is from the arctic circle or something) and she needs to take a shower before she sheds sawdust over anything else. 

If her thoughts stray to Stiles’ legs, which Stiles had stretched out on another chair while they finished the pizza, no one has to know. 

Derica groans, banging her head on the shower wall. She knows that they both want this, but she’s also aware that Stiles is in mad panic mode because of her thesis. This is probably not the greatest time for Stiles, and Derica is going to be respectful and let her finish one of the most important papers of her life. 

Doesn’t mean that she can’t get off in the shower thinking about Stiles’ legs around her shoulders. 

A towel, a pair of loose jeans and a tank top later she find that Stiles has migrated to the living room, and is flipping through a book, her tongue between her teeth. 

Stiles looks up and frowns in confusion, which makes Derica stop on her way to the kitchen. 

“What?” she asks, looking down at herself. No, nothing weird. 

“Is your bra lime green?” 

It’s highly possible that her tank top is slightly see through. 

“Yes?”

“I can’t… you own something colorful? That’s so – am I hallucinating? Like, I know I’ve already gone through two of the Red Bulls and probably took too much Adderall this morning, but you. Wearing color. That isn’t your sneakers.”

Derica just raises an eyebrow at her. Stiles, however, is too busy staring at her boobs. 

“Stiles, my eyes are up here,” Derica says, and grins when Stiles snaps her head up, looking slightly guilty. 

“We should --“ Stiles cuts herself off, making a weird strangled, frustrated noise. She dumps her laptop and a book off of her lap, stalks around the couch, and kisses Derica. 

Derica just kind of stands there for a second, somewhat shocked, before her brain kicks into action and then her hands are on Stiles, curving around her jaw, her hip. She has to tip her head back because Stiles is actually slightly taller than her. Stiles rucks her shirt up, splays her palms across her stomach, and then lets out a surprised little gasp when one of Derica’s hands finds its way to her breast. Stiles squirms against her and gets her thumbs under Derica’s bra, which pretty much fries Derica’s brain on the spot. 

She turns them around so that she can back Stiles into the wall, crowding their bodies together, and even though she’s got her back against something immovable, Stiles is all motion, grinding against Derica, and all noise when Derica kisses down her jaw, sucking at her neck. 

When she drops to her knees, Stiles looks down at her with her lips parted, red and bitten, and Derica needs her mouth on her. She shoves Stiles’ dress up, pressing kisses to her thighs, and she’s aware enough to hear it when Stiles slams her head back into the wall. Derica can’t help the little laugh that it gets out of her, her own voice breathy. 

“If I dent your wall, I’m sorry,” Stiles says, voice strangled. “I’m not liable though if you keep do– _jesus fucking christos, Derica_.” 

Stiles’ hands are in her hair, and Derica would stop her, but she’s too busy mouthing at Stiles through her underwear. When she shoves them out of the way, gets her mouth on Stiles, one of Stiles’ hands leaves her hair, and - judging by the sudden muffled noises Stiles is making - she’s probably biting it. 

Derica pulls away and looks up at Stiles, who is indeed clamped down on one of her knuckles, her head back and her eyes closed. 

“Hey, motormouth,” Derica says, and she licks her lips when Stiles looks down at her, knowing it’ll make Stiles groan. “Don’t be quiet.” 

Derica leans back in, loving the feeling of Stiles against her lips, on her tongue, and Stiles lets out a broken, perfect moan, both of her hands in Derica’s hair. 

\---

**a year-ish later, give or take**

Laura spots Derica and Stiles as soon as she walks into Free State and nearly rolls her eyes. They’re sitting in one of the giant, over-sized and stuffed armchairs around the low tables in the back, but unlike any other couple on the planet, they’re not even touching each other. Stiles is sitting with her legs drawn up, papers against her thighs - probably grading - and Derica is bent over, messing with something on her tablet. Aside from the fact that they’re sitting in the same chair, they don’t look like they even know each other. 

Lydia’s sitting on the arm of the chair across from Derica and Stiles, which Allison and Scout are taking up (only they’re practically in each other’s laps), and actually having a conversation with them like a normal person. The antisocials in the other chair don’t even look up when Laura sweeps over to the table and sits down on the edge of it. 

“Hey, student of mine and baby sister,” Laura says. “Why the silence?”

“Grading,” Stiles huffs out, frowning down at the papers at the same time that Derica holds up the tablet to show Laura that she’s scrolling through blueprints for something. 

“None of this merits not talking to your friends,” Laura says. “Wait, what are you grading? I thought you finished the military history papers?”

“Brenna’s in the hospital with food poisoning,” Stiles says, finally looking up from he work. “So I’m working on Deaton’s seminar as well.” 

(Laura tag-teams the lectures with another professor in the department, and he and his TA generally deal with the Tuesday afternoon section, while Laura and Stiles get Thursday morning.) 

“Oh god, did she get caught up in whole De Neve thing?” Scout asks, wrinkling her nose. 

“De Neve thing?” Allison asks. 

“One of the dining halls. A bunch of people got food poisoning,” Scout says. “Oh, hey, Laura!” Scout bends over for something in her bag, at which point Allison takes the opportunity to drop a kiss on the back of her neck, making Lydia roll her eyes. 

“Please tell me food poisoning did not remind you to give me something,” Laura says, slightly afraid. 

“No, it just randomly occurred to me,” Scout says, handing over an envelope. It’s heavy and embossed and there’s only one thing that it could be. Looks like Jessica’s going to have to clear her schedule to accompany Laura to a wedding. 

“You guys really went all-out on the invitations,” Lydia notes. 

“My mother,” Allison says darkly as Laura opens it. It looks like something that Laura could imagine a parent picking out – Scout and Allison both strike her as the quirky Pinterest type in terms of wedding planning, and this invite practically screams cathedral length train and five tier cake. 

She’s about to point this out when something else catches her eye on the invite. 

“Scout?” She asks. “Is your middle name seriously Harper?”

“Oh god,” Scout moans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t go with just middle initials –“

“My _mother_.” Allison is practically growling now. 

“Your mother is going to give me cold feet,” Scout grumbles. Allison just fixes her with a glare. “Kidding! Kidding, oh my god. If that dinner in high school didn’t put me off, we’re so good. Aggressive cake grabbing, Allison!” 

Sometimes Laura swears that Stiles and her friends speak in some language that’s only partly English. 

“Ah, that story never fails to warm my heart,” Lydia says, smirking. Scout ignores her in favor of kissing Allison, which makes the scowl drop from her face in less than a second, replaced by a little grin. 

“You two are ridiculous,” Stiles says, but she’s grinning too. 

Eventually Stiles goes back to her grading, Derica to whatever the blueprints are for, and Allison and Scout get stuck trying to figure out if sea foam or mint is more _in_ at the moment for bridesmaid dresses, with Lydia giving input. 

Laura pulls out her phone to check her emails when she sees Stiles move out of the corner of her eye, and has to hide her own smile when Stiles elbows Derica and then kisses her on the end of the nose. Derica gives her a look, but she scoots closer to Stiles and drops a hand over the back of the chair. 

Never let it be said that Laura is not the greatest matchmaker in the history of, well, _everything_.


End file.
